


Lie to Me

by AFishNamedSushi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Freeform, M/M, Prostitution, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFishNamedSushi/pseuds/AFishNamedSushi
Summary: He checks all the right boxes. Pale skinned and thin; dark, purple-tinged shadows under his eyes; high cheekbones like gorges in a sun-bleached sidewalk. Tall. Not quite as tall but tall enough, and he is not at all what John expected.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 100





	Lie to Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom (waves) and was written as an exercise to get back into writing after a very long hiatus due to personal reasons. 
> 
> In my head, I imagine this occurs right after S2 when John believes Sherlock is dead. It was somewhat inspired by "Lie to Me" by Chris Isaak, primarily the lyrics "I'm not trying to hurt my love. I’m only trying to get by."
> 
> Do people even do songfics these days? Ah well, *shrugs*
> 
> Not Britpicked or beta'd, so please excuse any glaring errors. Feedback is most welcome.

The young man smokes his cigarette the way fifteen-year-olds imagine supermodels give blowjobs.

He checks all the right boxes. Pale skinned and thin; dark, purple-tinged shadows under his eyes; high cheekbones like gorges on a sun-bleached sidewalk. Tall. Not quite as tall but tall _enough,_ and he is not at all what John expected.

“You all right, love?” the young man asks. The _child_ , John reminds himself, because there is no way this creature is as older than eighteen, nineteen possibly, though like his...friend, he too wears a face of one who will always be mistaken for younger than he is. It’s the eyes, John thinks. One never gets past the first impression, and a reasonable (sane) man would hesitate to go back for seconds in case they started looking – really _looking -_ right back.

Like staring directly into torchlight. You’ll burn your retinas out if you glance too long.

There are slight differences to what John remembers, of course. His hair is shorter, for one, shorn closer to the scalp, curls packed tight to his skull. They bounce a bit when he twists his head to the side, that long neck pulled taught. His lips aren’t as full, mouth not quite as wide. But that smile is a devious one, and that’s all that really matters.

All things considered, the resemblance is uncanny.

"You keep looking at me like that and we'll be done before we even get started."

His accent his rougher, less posh, but his voice is deep, throat ruined enough by a habitual cigarette habit and other activities that the mental stretch isn't much effort, and it goes to John's head.

What are the odds, he wonders, of finding one such as this? He half expects it to be a fugue state, to wake up any second now chasing the left over remnants from the bottom of a bottle. But though his capacity for creativity is masterful there are some things even his imagination cannot capture. Little nuances unique to these illicit encounters that would never have entered on Doctor John Watson’s radar before, well….before. The way the boy steps between John's thighs where he sits on the bed to bracket him in, how he takes a drag and blows the smoke through his nose away from John's face, the movement of his hands drifting across his bare chest to tease at the dip just above his trousers, tight and black...it's all designed to mislead, to entice the buyer into forgetting that this is all really quite dangerous. Illegal. Shameful.

John had though he'd lost the capacity to feel shame about anything. He is not relieved to realize he was wrong.

"You're very handsome," the boy says. He hasn't touched John once since they came into the room. Smart thing, waiting to see what John's intentions are before he commits himself to anything. He stamps out his cigarette and throws it on the grimy hotel carpet. It's a testament to how filthy the room is that you can't even tell. "Usually I don't get so lucky." Of that, John has no doubt. "My mates are going to be jealous."

John takes a deep breath, reaches behind himself to fish his wallet out of his pocket. He’s suddenly overcome with a rush of adrenaline, a fire banked before it explodes. He doesn't want to scare the boy, though his mind can't help but conjure up an image of this one writhing on the bed, wrists wrapped in the iron grip of his fists. Instead, he withdraws a folded note and holds it up between two fingers for inspection.

The boy's eyes are drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Then he tenses and looks suspicious.

"I'm not police," John says. He is so far from _the_ _police_ these days that it's laughable.

"You know that you have to tell me if you are."

Oh sweet thing. As if people _have_ to do anything but lie.

"I'm not. I promise."

The boy takes a moment before he snatches the money from John's fingers. And then it's like a switch has been thrown, and he is suddenly crawling into John's lap, scratching across John's chest, pressing his mouth to the spot behind John's ear and breathing out, hot and heavy, "Then tell me what you want, darling."

John swallows, brings his hand up and cups the back of the boy's head, runs his fingers through the dark curls, moving him so he looks right into those eyes. Not quite as brilliant, not quite as _there_ , but it'll do.

"I want you to suck my cock."

The boy's eyes widen slightly, real innocence or feigned John can't tell, and looks down their bodies to where their groins are pressed together, dark denim against bronzed skin, a swath of gold where the deep blue of John's shirt has risen up to expose a bit of his stomach.

"All right."

And then he's moving, slinking his pale skinny body down John's like a coiled snake, hands pressed to John's legs spayed wide, pushing up so his fingers rest on the juncture between thigh and groin. He looks up at John as he reaches for the zipper, fingers teasing across the hardening bulge and, god, it's all too much. John closes his eyes. He reminds himself that he isn't doing anything wrong here, not really, other than the obvious. This boy makes his living by fulfilling the fantasies of men not half as old as John, not half as generous. Whatever scars will be made from this encounter are John's to bear, alone, with as much history and conviction and love as the knife that wields them.

The boy massages John through his trousers. "Do you want to know my name?" he asks. It fills John with fear, suddenly, and he almost lashes out, almost grabs this pretty little thing between his legs and shakes it. But he gets himself under control, gets himself back to the hazy in-between where this is both what it is and what it isn't.

"No."

"Hmmm." The boy takes the zipper and pulls it down. He reaches inside and grasps John's pants, starts tugging them down. "Do you want to give me one?"

" _No-_ " John starts to say, then breaks off in a hiss as the boy presses gentle, wet pressure against the cloth, licking up and down with an expression on his face like he just did something to win the upper hand and he knows it. John's hands fist in the bed sheets. _Let go, I've got you_ , John hears in his head, _Trust me, John,_ and how cruel that the mind remembers these things, memories wrapped in sensations wrapped in desires.

"Can I know yours?" He's fished out John's cock, is working it to full hardness with slow, measured strokes.

"John."

"John," the boy says. "You have a fantastic cock, truly, gorgeous."

He cants his hips up so those deft fingers can pull his pants further down, John's hands clenching in the covers. There are little noises now, tiny sighs and hums of curiosity or pleasure that are too good, too _perfect_ to be completely fake. When the boy's lips wrap around him and suck him down smooth, John's breath is sharp through his nose. His jaw clenches. It's the prelude to destruction, the moment when he feels as though he's about to rip apart at the seams, a still point at the center of a storm -

His thighs tense and the boy hums. One of his hands has traveled up to John's stomach, pressing inside his shirt to feel where his stomach muscles are tight with the effort of holding steady. A finger ghosts over some battle scar, some relic, and the fingers are not these fingers, this place is not what it will never be. And John -

Snaps. Fists his hand around the top of that head (and that's why the hair is so short, so no one can really grab onto it), and thrusts up. The boy chokes, and immediately John makes to pull away, an apology on his tongue, but the eyes hold him fast, watery and red. The eyes say yes while the mouth is stretched wide, shiny with spit and...and..and it's a good thing this is all okay because John isn't sure he could stop, otherwise.

John jerks, pushes his hand down, watching the pale back descend with every press, the knobs of the boy's spine standing out in sharp relief. Everything sounds wet. He pushes harder, lifts his hips higher, teeth clamping and feet straining. He's being pulled apart from the inside out, a soldier reduced to a quivering, pathetic, desperate mess only the way pale pretty boys with incomprehensible eyes are able.

John grunts, twitches, tries to warn. It's almost uncomfortable, the way his hips dig into the edge of the bed. His eyes are half-lidded in pleasure, shoulders hunching forward while his hand presses down, faster and faster, wetter and wetter, the little nose puffing short breaths against his belly, and god, he hadn't even noticed the freckles -

John comes burning alive, wrung out and gasping. As it dies, he spares half a thought for the boy, though surely unexpected orgasms are par for the course in his line of work. To John's relief, he doesn't seem fazed, just swallows it all down greedily, taking everything John has to offer until he's too tender and draws the boy off, his softening cock slipping out with a pop. John slumps back onto his elbows on the bed, buzzing with aftershocks.

This is when he remembers why he doesn't do this. Why it really is such a terrible thing to give in to temptation.

The boy looks ruined, cheeks flushed and eye makeup running. But he also looks like everything _else_ , all the things John has tried to bury under miles and months and righteousness and anger and hate.

"You alright, love?" Other than his face, the boy is as suave as ever, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. John nods.

The boy takes in John's disheveled appearance, his cock still hanging out of his unfastened pants, and says, "Want to wait a bit and go again? You can fuck me if you like."

John closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face.

"No. Thank you."

"You sure? Really, I don't mind." He smirks, overtly ogling John's bare stomach, his strong thighs. "I'll even give you a discount."

Suddenly John has the urge to laugh, to open his mouth and just _howl_ at the absurdity of it all. Even here there is no fairness, no illusion of equality. It all feels like a joke, some cosmic pissing match that sees fit to dangle his failures in front of his face, wrap them in promises of relief, no matter how temporary.

He refrains and offers the boy as kind a smile as he can muster. "I don't think so."

And god bless him, the boy actually looks disappointed. He checks the money in his pocket and grabs his smokes. At the door he looks back and John is struck dumb for a moment at the sight, an image like a black and white photograph from a past that never existed, a context that never fit. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

That's the problem, John thinks.

He's always known where to find him.


End file.
